


Fire

by honey_wheeler



Series: The Pointer Project [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Cunnilingus, Doggy Style, F/M, Filthy, Sleep Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1235596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/pseuds/honey_wheeler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a miserable thing, to still be beholden to the honor of a broken vow. Part of Jon would keep those vows, no matter that his sworn brothers tried to cut them out of him with their daggers, spilling them onto the snow and ice along with his blood. The Red Woman’s magics had brought him back, and his nagging sense of duty along with him, the same sense of duty that had him stoically turning away the first time Val turned her eye upon him.</p><p>Thank the gods that Val has no such qualms about honor or vows or anything of the sort; each time she touches him in the night, his defenses weak and muddled by sleep, his desire overwhelming, he knows that his honor is merely a pretense that her lack thereof allows him to maintain, and he is more than grateful for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fire

**Author's Note:**

> So sometimes you get to talking with **[Jal80](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Jal80/pseuds/Jal80)** about how, when you think about it, a lot of Pointer Sisters songs would suit various Jon Snow ships, and then next thing you know you're texting things like "JON/YGRITTE = DARE ME, Y/MFY??" and listening to Slow Hand fifty times in a row and then fic like this happens. SUE ME.
> 
> Jon/Val - **[Fire](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c3qo0JXk_RE)**
> 
>  
> 
>  _Previously on The Pointer Project:_  
>  Jon/Sansa - **[Slow Hand](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1041783)**  
>  Jon/Ygritte - **[Dare Me](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1068266)**  
>  Jon/Catelyn - **[Little Boy Sweet](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1160620)**

Jon’s never been much of what Old Nan always used to call a Night Hob. That was more Bran’s territory, staying awake long past the time he should be asleep, scribbling fancies on parchment by candlelight and being pulled groaning from his bed the next morning, begging just a bit more sleep. Jon was always up with the dawn and asleep not long after sunset, his days spent with Robb, their time occupied by training and lessons, riding through the Wolfwood and swimming in the lakes that had seemed so cold before Jon had come to the Wall. Little that seemed worth doing could be done at night.

That’s something else that seemed different before Jon had come to the Wall.

He should not anticipate them so, these dark morning hours when the cold of the night coalesces into vapor outside their warm cocoon, turning to frost on the walls of their tent that Jon has to scrape away each morning. These are the hours he should be most deeply asleep, huddled into the warmth of his furs, grateful for the small brazier that warms the tent he’s shared with Val on their flight from the Wall and from the brothers there – former brothers, really – who would kill Jon as soon as look at him. Instead he floats in half wakefulness, his body rousing itself while his mind lags behind, his whole being nearly trembling in anticipation of the moment that always comes when Val’s hands find his body, her mouth finds his skin.

Her cunt finds his cock.

It’s a miserable thing, to still be beholden to the honor of a broken vow. Part of Jon would keep those vows, no matter that his sworn brothers tried to cut them out of him with their daggers, spilling them onto the snow and ice along with his blood. The Red Woman’s magics had brought him back, and his nagging sense of duty along with him, the same sense of duty that had him stoically turning away the first time Val turned her eye upon him.

Thank the gods that Val has no such qualms about honor or vows or anything of the sort; each time she touches him in the night, his defenses weak and muddled by sleep, his desire overwhelming, he knows that his honor is merely a pretense that her lack thereof allows him to maintain, and he is more than grateful for it.

She is anything but predictable. Some nights she merely rolls into his arms and presses her lips to his, exploring his mouth with long, surprisingly sweet kisses that have him waking in the morning with chapped lips and a tongue sore from reaching. Her own lips look smudged in the light of day, the dark, fleshy pink of an overripe plum, and it’s all Jon can do to stop himself reaching for her with all his faculties about him, to find out if her mouth tastes different in the dark. Other nights she is all teeth and nails, avoiding his kisses to nip at his jaw, his ear, the pads of his fingers before she pushes his hand between her thighs and holds it there as she rocks against it, using him like a common tool in a way he finds all too potent. Still other nights she tucks her back to his chest, urging him to curve around her before she throws a leg back over his thigh and opens herself to him, guiding his cock inside her with a hand snaked between their bodies. He doesn’t resist. Even if he truly wanted to, he doesn’t think he could anymore. Not now that he knows what he’d be missing.

The most shamefully thrilling nights are the ones that bring something entirely new. When Val wriggles low beneath the fur and her breath washes over his cock, Jon is ashamed of how fiercely he wants her, how flimsy the shield of his honor truly is, for he thinks he might betray anything and everything for the feel of her tongue exploring him, teasing him, transporting him. Ygritte had mentioned it once, but they’d never done it, and Jon finds it’s even better than his fervent imaginings could have encompassed. Val isn’t there for long – never quite as long as he’d like but always a bit longer than he thinks he can stand without perishing on the spot – before she rises to climb astride him, dragging her slick heat over the length of his cock in a further tease, back and forth, before guiding him inside her at last and looking down on him with a smug satisfaction that’s unbearable for how arousing it is. Jon comes nearly instantly on those nights, trying desperately to bring her to her peak with clumsy fingers before he spills but never yet managing it. He thinks from the look on her face that she likes it better that way. Val loves to have the upper hand, that is something he’s learning.

There is no pattern to these nights, nothing Jon can identify that makes her begin this routine, so he can do it again and again, secure in the knowledge that it is still she who makes the advance, that he has somehow still not breached his vows. But there’s nothing to make her predictable, no cause that Jon can pinpoint, despite how much he tries. It all remains the most exciting, shameful, painfully pleasurable mystery, and they make terrible time on their journey south, too exhausted from each night’s play to wake early enough for a full day’s ride. Jon can’t say he cares. He should. But he can’t.

There’s been nothing to set this night apart from any other. Their pace throughout the day is something just short of steady; they take too many breaks, find too many ways to tease each other – or more accurately, for Val to tease Jon and Jon to tease himself. He should be used to the casual earthiness of the women of the freefolk by now, but she is somehow always a surprise. And always so painfully, achingly lovely, not just in her face and her body, but in her manner, in the steely strength of her spirit.

When she dips her head beneath the furs early into the next morning, Jon swims up through layers of sleep, his cock throbbing with an ache so fierce it seems like it’s been a moon’s turn since his last release, rather than merely a sun’s turn. Her breath ghosting across him makes him shiver and twitch; her tongue flicking the spot she knows he likes best makes him moan. When she pulls away, he expects her to follow her routine, to straddle him and guide his cock inside her where he wants it to be so desperately, but instead she moves to the side, forcing him awake entirely from the surprise.

“Val…?” he murmurs, voice thick with the remnants of sleep. It’s dark enough that it takes his eyes a moment to adjust, and as always, he’s unprepared for her beauty, for the sensual challenge in her eyes that renders her not just pleasing, but overpowering.

“I want you to fuck me, Jon Snow.”

She watches him for a moment, letting it sink in. It’s a breach of their unspoken contract, a violation of their tacit agreement to allow him delusions about his true nature. For a moment, Jon is frozen, too assailed by conflicting thoughts to do anything but stare at her in painfully aroused dismay. Then she flips her back to him and drops forward so that she’s on her hands and knees, the gold-limned curves of her thighs and backside presented to him, the delicate petal-like furls between them exposed to him when she shifts her knees further apart – gods, he can smell her sex from here and he may be drunk on it – and there is no more dismay. Only want and need and desperation. He would dearly love to say he hesitates, but in truth, he’s kneeling behind her so quickly he doesn’t even remember having moved.

She expects him to fuck her without preamble. She’s ready for him, gods, she’s _wet_ for him, he can see that even in the dim light of the glowing coals, but he needs more. He needs to put her as wrong-footed as she’s done him. 

He’s never tasted her but for the remnants of her release on his fingers, sucked off furtively after she’s fallen into contented sleep. She tastes even better when he gets his tongue on her directly, her gasp of surprise almost as sweet as her cunt. He smoothes his hands over the lush curves of her backside, sinking his fingers into her flesh as he sinks his tongue into her, seeking and finding the spot that he remembers, the one that made Ygritte tremble and hitch and call out his name. In this, Val is no different. He laps and sucks at her, savoring her taste, her texture, her responsive pleasure. While Ygritte had been shy the first time, Val is bold, bucking back against him and demanding more, until she’s sinking to her elbows with her face pressed to the buckskin floor, her hips canted at an obscene angle as she grinds out her release against his face. It’s far more shameful and a world more thrilling than he’d anticipated from the night and he can’t help but grin against her, flicking his tongue to wring another shudder from her, almost expecting a rebuke. Instead she gives a strangled cry, her rough breathing loud in the small space.

“Fuck me, Jon Snow,” she says again, and this time it is not a command. It’s a request, an invitation, a plea.

He takes her like that, her elbows on the ground, her hips up in the air, one foot kicked up between his legs to curl behind his thigh and press beneath his arse, her heel following every thrust of his hips as he fucks her like he may never be allowed to again. He wants to kiss her, but she’s out of his reach; instead he strokes his hands endlessly over her hips and back, pushing the heel of his palm hard up the line of her spine to tangle in her hair, permitting himself to show his admiration for her in every touch, the way he never would outside this tent, in the sun and the air of the regular world. He strokes her as if she’s a great wild cat, and she arches against him as if it’s true, dipping her belly and pushing her hips back, her whole body a sinuous, curving flame.

“Jon,” she pants. “I want your hand on me.” 

He slides one hand beneath her, stroking over her belly and blindly finding the right spot. It takes only a handful of strokes against her before she comes again with an impassioned scream, her cunt tightening and pulsing around him so pleasurably that he takes only one more thrust before he’s coming to match, his pleasure peaking as hers winds down. When every last drop of feeling has been wrung from his body, he collapses atop her, rolling enough to the side that he won’t crush her, but wanting to feel her skin beneath his, wanting the press of her ribs and shoulder blades to his chest, her arse to his hips, the nape of her neck to his lips.

The sun is showing in lightened stripes when Jon is awakened by Val stirring, both of them having slipped into sleep without realizing. He starts, thinking her should perhaps move away, but before he can Val twists from her belly to her side, giving him the slightest glance over her should, so that he knows he’s meant to curl behind her like nestled spoons. This is something even more new than the rest of it; morning light puts them apart on other days. It’s never brought them together before.

“So,” she says, her tone conversational, as if she hadn’t just been writhing and screaming around his cock not two hours before. As if they aren’t snugged together now like true lovers, and not just people who fuck each other each night. “Am I still going to have to seduce you in your sleep each night? Or have we dispensed with that little game?”

Jon thinks for a moment. He tightens his arms experimentally and thinks that if he squeezes his eyes tightly shut, it could still seem like night. “Yes,” he decides, satiation making him honest. “At least for a while.” Val twists her head to nip affectionately at the arm he has slung over her shoulder.

“Good,” she says, wriggling against him in a way that manages to be both endearing and arousing. “I like the challenge.”

Gods help me, Jon thinks, but so do I.


End file.
